


The Super Secret Squad! in: The Mystery of the Rotten Ralphs

by punkrockgaia



Series: Super Secret Squad! [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bad Parenting, Bullying, Crime, Cussing, F/M, Gen, High School, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, Neglect, Retail Jobs, Smoking, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/punkrockgaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Get a job? Ugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Super Secret Squad! in: The Mystery of the Rotten Ralphs

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place about two weeks after the events in the Adventure of Radon Canyon.

The power stayed off for two more weeks. During that time, the food in the fridge rotted, so they began to work through the dusty cans and boxes that they'd had since Gods-know-when. Eventually, though, that too began to run out, and it was on a Thursday night that Simon opened up the last sleeve of stale saltines, a can of baby corn (not the imaginary kind, but any port in a storm), and a label-less can that he sincerely hoped was low-grade tuna and not medium-grade cat food, then closed the door on a pantry containing only cobwebs and the odd pest dropping. He carefully divided the food onto two chipped china plates. Crap. There were an odd number of crackers in the cellophane sleeve. He hesitated a moment, then put the extra cracker onto his brother's plate.

He turned back to the kitchen table, where Cecil was hunched low, nose three inches away from his schoolbooks, doing homework in the dim light of an ornate candelabra. He heard Simon approach, then looked up, grinning widely. 

"Oh, yum, dinner!"

Simon grimaced. "I don't know if I'd say 'yum,' Geekazoid." Cecil stacked his books and Simon set the plates down, along with some forks that he'd managed to find in the sink and scrub reasonably clean. Cecil blinked at him expectantly.

"What?"

"Where's Mom's?"

Simon hissed exasperatedly. "We've been through this, Cecil. Every night. Every night, you throw a fit until we make up a plate for Mother, and then it sits out and goes bad and no one touches it except for the rats and the roaches. She's not going to eat it, and we don't have enough for her."

Cecil glared at him defiantly, but Simon could see the hint of a quiver at the bottom of his pointed chin. "That's not the _point_. It's not _fair_ for us to eat and for her to have nothing! You know what? You wanna be selfish, you be selfish. I'll give her half of mine." His voice wobbled more and more as he spit out the words, and finally cracked on the last one. He hopped up from his seat and scurried to the dining room. Simon sighed as he heard the clink of dishes as Cecil pawed around in the sideboard, looking for a dish that was perfect, unchipped and uncracked. Every night. Every fucking night.

Cecil came back into the room, having somehow found a pristine piece of their great-grandmother's Wedgwood in the mess of the sideboard. His mouth was set in a stubborn line, but Simon could see the damp tracks on his cheeks where he'd wiped away angry tears. He sat down at the table and started transferring half the food from his plate onto the other. Simon grabbed his hand.

"No, Ceese. I'm sorry. We'll make it fair. We can each give her one-third of what we have, okay?"

Cecil smiled weakly. "Okay." The boys divvied up the food, and Cecil dutifully placed his mother's plate at the cleared-off seat where she never sat to join them for meals.

The boys ate their meager portions by candlelight, and Simon was no more sure of the canned meat's provenance at the end of the meal than he had been at the beginning. Cecil was enthusiastic and grateful, though, so that helped. When they were done, they washed and dried the plates and put them back into the sideboard. As they did, Simon caught a flicker of a movement out of the corner of his eye. He flinched and turned to see their mother, wraithlike in the doorway in a dark head scarf and fur coat. Simon never understood how she didn't get heatstroke. It was the desert, for Christ's sake. 

"Mom!" Cecil was grinning like her appearance was the best thing that had happened to him all day. "Your dinner is on the table. Simon made it, it's really good!"

Something that might have been a wan smile crossed her lips, and she walked her gliding walk over to where they stood, placing a cold hand on each boy's cheek. "My sprouts, my saplings. Be wary, be warned, beware." Cecil looked at her adoringly, and Simon was annoyed to find that he stood a little taller in his mother's attention, himself. She stared through them for a moment, then turned and drifted back into the house. 

Simon glanced over to see that Cecil had his arms wrapped around his own bony shoulders, giving himself a hug, luminously happy. It made him want to smash things. "Fuck this, I'm going out," he growled.

Cecil's eyes grew wide. "But Simon," he breathed, "it's a _school night_."

"Oh, I give a shit. Get out of my way, Poindexter." He shoved Cecil on the shoulder roughly as he passed, then sprinted out of the house, glass pane of the front door rattling as he slammed it shut.

He jammed his hands into his pockets as he strode down the sidewalk. He had no earthly idea why he was as pissed as he was, but he knew that he had to get out of the house before he punched his brother unconscious. Why couldn't Cecil see what he did, that their mother was a nut job and always would be, that she was ruining their lives and that they'd be better off without her?

He had no particular destination in mind as he walked, but soon he found himself at the playground of the elementary school. He smiled nostalgically at the monkey bars, the swing, the obstacle course with the sharpened spikes and the fire and the quicksand. He had good memories here, of Steve and Simone and him, acting out wild adventures as the Super Secret Squad. They'd played for hours, battling imaginary evildoers and reaping glorious imaginary rewards. Sometimes they'd even saved Cecil and that lame-ass Earl from the various bullies that stalked the schoolyard. He'd been proud of himself then.

He sat down on one of the swings and started to spin in a lazy circle. The little metal box he'd found at the canyon felt reassuringly weighty in the pocket of his jacket, and he patted it as he spun and thought. It was hard to believe that at one time he'd thought of himself as one of the good guys. Back then, he dreamed that he could fix everything. That somehow, some day, they'd be a real, normal family. Mother would smile real smiles and wear pretty clothes, and he and Cecil would live in a clean, safe, nice house. They'd be happy. God, that had been stupid.

He sat and stewed and smoked for the better part of an hour. It wasn't like he could figure out where things went wrong -- they had always been wrong, as long as he could remember. Mother had always been weird and Cecil had always been weird. And they'd always be weird, too. It made them happy. They were beyond saving. It was up to him to save himself. Finally, cursing and spitting, he got up off the swings and started shuffling home. 

As he walked, a voice called from the bushes.

"It's after curfew, Mr. Palmer. Where are you going?"

"Your mom's hairy twat," he growled back, and kept walking. Fuck the police.

He got home a little after midnight. He fumbled his penlight out of his pocket and climbed the stairs to his room. A lump in the middle of the nest of blankets and other cloth this-and-that (one of mother's shawls, an old t-shirt of Simon's that read "I'm a Good Citizen!", a dish towel, one of a pair of argyle socks, and so on) on Cecil's bed snored softly. Simon carefully removed the box from his pocket and put it under his pillow, shucked his clothing, folded it, and climbed into bed in his boxers. 

He lay on his back, looking out the window into the moonless void. He felt keyed-up, restless. It was the earliest he'd been to bed in ages, but what was the point of staying awake. He tossed and turned for about an hour, then finally lapsed into a fitful sleep.

As he slept, he dreamed. In his dream, he stood triumphantly before a wide-eyed, worshipful Cecil and Mother. Mother wore a pretty pink sweater and a floral skirt, and Cecil had two normal eyes and wasn't being a huge dork. "Simon, Simon, you're so much better than us," they said in sing-song unison. "You're our hero!"

"I know," he said. They fell to their knees, gazing up at him adoringly. 

Simon stepped over them as Arnold Vansten popped out from nowhere. "Simon Palmer, you are the best boy in all of Night Vale. You deserve... A BRAND NEW CAR! You deserve **everything**."

Suddenly, a black limousine appeared, Steve at the wheel in a chauffeur's livery. Confetti made of hundred-dollar bills and wild applause floated through the air as Simon waved and climbed into the shiny car. Simone waited for him in the backseat.

"You're _my_ hero, too, Simon," she said, and whipped off her shirt. Simon was just reaching for her small, perfect breasts when he woke with a start. The sun was glaring through the dirty, curtain-less window and their old, wind-up alarm clock was shrilling angrily. He sat up and saw Cecil groggily emerge from his nest, fumbling around in the covers until he found his glasses. 

The two got ready in silence. Despite their differences, one thing the Palmer boys had in common was their lack of enthusiasm for mornings, so they always set their alarm clock as late as possible. About fifteen bleary minutes later, they were dressed. Simon lingered behind as Cecil stumbled to the bathroom for a pee, a quick scrub with unheated water and tooth-brushing. When Simon was sure his brother was out of the room, he stashed the Strex box into his backpack, then stood in the hallway as he waited for Cecil to finish up. The younger boy emerged, straightening his Boy Scout kerchief. 

Simon groaned. "Ugh. Why are you wearing that stupid faggot uniform?"

"It's meeting day! We're planning our camp-out. Earl and I are going to share a tent!"

"Well, I'm not going to walk to school with you, then. I don't want everyone to know that I'm related to such a big gaywad freak."

Cecil cocked his head to one side, bewildered. "But doesn't everyone already know that you're my brother?"

"That's not the point! I meant -- ugh! Just leave without me."

"If you're late to school, I'm gonna tell Mom."

"And she'll care, for sure. She'll probably say something like 'ring around the moon' and then crap herself."

Cecil's cheeks got red and his lower lip began to quiver. "Why are you so mean to Mom? She loves us!"

"Whatever, Ass Clown. Get out of here before I kick you down the stairs." He gave his brother a half-hearted shove and snarled at his retreating back, then claimed the bathroom for himself. He took a dump, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and slicked back his hair. It would be a lot easier to look presentable if all the mirrors in the house weren't covered up. He tried to conjure up his dream-image of Simone's tits for a quick wank, but his heart wasn't in it. For one thing, he was in a shitty mood. For another, he was never entirely sure that his brother or his mother wasn't mentally peeking in at him at any given moment. Just in case they were, he made a violent series of obscene gestures until he had a coughing fit, then sprayed himself down with Brut deodorant, pulled his Revolting Cocks t-shirt over his head, and slouched his way to school.

The morning passed as annoyingly as it always did. The classes were ridiculous and pointless, and the teachers always gave him such shit. On top of it, he was failing scrying, which was doubly embarrassing because Cecil was, like, the star nerd of his scrying class. Apparently, the guidance counselor had suggested that he be transferred into Scrying 4, but that would have possibly put him into Simon's class. A quick and vivid discussion between himself and Cecil about how Cecil's life would change when he had to piss out of a tube in his forehead had convinced him that he would be better off staying in Scrying 3 and picking up an elective in Haruspicy.

He was on his way to the table in the back where he and Simone and Steve usually sat when he saw the little Nerdlinger. He was sitting with that dopey-looking Earl kid. Oh my Gods, were they holding hands? Pathetic. He strode past them quickly, before anyone could get the idea that he knew the Dork Scouts.

He flung himself down into the battered lunchroom chair next to Simone, who was unwrapping a jelly sandwich, which she opened up and covered in sugar. Steve pulled out a grease-spotted paper bag and produced a slice of bologna, which he began to gnaw on.

"Where's the bread?"

Steve shrugged. "Wasn't any bread. Where's your lunch?"

"I didn't bring one. I'm not hungry." He glared around the cafeteria at all the other kids. The stupid fucking jocks and their stuck up cheerleader girlfriends. The hippies, with their weed stink and dumbass sunny attitude. The rich kids. The drama geeks. His stupid brother, who appeared to be sharing Harlan's Jello.

His crew almost kinda fit in with the art kids. Almost. But not really, because they played at being dark and tortured, but at the end of the day they went home to Mommy and Daddy and dinner. He hated them the most. Fucking poseurs.

Simone pushed half of her diabetes sandwich to him. "Here. Take it."

He began to snarl, but softened. He didn't need to pretend with them. They got it. "Thanks," he mumbled. "We went through the last of the food last night. I think some of it might have been Friskies from when we still had Iago."

Steve shuddered, then looked down at his luncheon meat with a nauseated grimace. "Well, what're you going to do for food?"

"Dunno. Maybe the crazy bitch could, you know, get off her ass and buy some."

"You ever thought about getting a job?"

Simon snorted. "Jobs are for _suckers and sheep_ , Steve."

Steve colored briefly. He had a part-time job down at the Ammo Depot. Simon felt a flash of guilt, which immediately soured into anger.

"Oh, fuck this. I don't want this stupid sandwich." He flapped the sandwich down onto the tabletop, where the squooshy white bread landed with a satisfying _thwap_. "I'm gonna go smoke."

He shoved his chair away from the table and stood, then stormed out of the cafeteria, through the side doors of the school, and around to the back parking lot. His hands were shaking as he lit a smoke. He breathed out in a long huff, then heard a soft voice at his elbow.

"That was kind of a dick move, Si. I think you hurt Steve's feelings."

He turned to face Simone. "Yeah? Well, he can get over it. He knows he's a sucker, working at that shitty dump and giving all his money to his mom, so she can spend it on Nighttrain and getting knocked up again."

"That's mean. He cares about taking care of his family, that's all."

"Oh, and I don't? Why don't you go fuck the Family Man, then? Christ knows you aren't fucking me."

She shook her head and reached up to him, placing her chilly hands on his cheeks. "I don't want Steve, Simon. I want you. I just... I want to take it slow, you know? I really care about you." Her eyes filled with tears.

"Aw, Christ, Simone, I'm sorry. I'm just -- ugh, I'm so fed up with stuff, you know? All I can think about is getting out of town. I hate this shit hole."

She kissed him gently. "I know, Baby, I know. And we will. As soon as we can. But, you know, we're gonna need money. I've been saving everything I can steal from Meemaw and Peepaw, but they're such cheapskates I can't take much before they notice, and if they notice, well..." She grew pale and immediately started chewing a ragged thumbnail. Her eyelid twitched. "Well, you know. So maybe you getting a job isn't such a bad idea."

Simon hugged her tight. He had to remember that he wasn't the only one who had it shitty at home. If him getting a job would get them out of town sooner, well, then, maybe he had to suck it up. He kissed the top of her head, then looked up to see Steve, shuffling at them tentatively. He approached them but stood an awkward distance away, looking at the ground.

Simon eased Simone away from him, threw his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out, then held out his hand to Steve. 

"Dude, I'm sorry. That was not cool of me."

Steve appeared to consider for a moment, then sighed and shook the offered hand. "It's okay, man. It is kinda lame to have a job."

"Well, then I'm gonna be lame, too. Right after class I'm going over to the Ralphs to see if they'll hire me."

"Wow, cool."

Simone giggled. "Will you bust us when we come in to steal beer and smokes?"

"Of course not! I'll help! It'll be easier than ever." He groaned as the school bell rang. "Fuck. Back to the Moron Factory."

Simone stepped between the two boys and offered each an arm. They took them and strode into the school, one unit, invincible. 

The afternoon wasn't quite as bad as the morning had been. Simon had study hall, then Painting II, then Mixed-Media Workshop. He suffered through Trig, then bounded out of the building as soon as the bell rang. At the front steps, he kissed Simone and bade her and Steve goodbye. They rarely hung around right after school. Simone's grandparents made her come right home, and Steve had to get to the Ammo Depot. Simon was surprised to find out that it felt good to have somewhere to go for a change.

He hurried down the sidewalk to the grocery store. It was weird to be going in there with something other than a five-finger discount in mind. Maybe soon it would be an employee discount instead. 

He felt himself blush as he made his way to the customer service desk. The stout, redheaded woman behind the counter pursed her lips and grimaced.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Yeah... Yeah, uh, are you guys hiring?"

She narrowed her eyes and reached under the desk, producing a piece of paper that she slid to him. "Here's an application. Take it home and fill it out and bring it back tomorrow."

"Well, uh, I was hoping that maybe I could start today?"

"That's not --"

"I mean," interrupted Simon, "I'm so anxious to get started. I love groceries. And if you're any indication, all the employees are very professional, and if I may say so, very attractive."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You're full of shit, son. But I like bullshitters. My first and third husbands were bullshitters, rest their souls. Why do you _really_ wanna work here so bad?"

Simon blinked. He was so startled by the way she saw through his clever ruse that he forgot to lie. "My family doesn't have any money and there's no food and I want to leave town with my girlfriend before I kill somebody."

Her expression became one of pity. "Poor kid. My old man wasn't worth a damn, either. Let me see what I can do. I'll call Mr. Vasquez and put in a good word for you. Whyn't you go wait in the break room. It's just back here." She gestured toward a plywood door behind her. Simon nodded, and she let him behind the counter. He followed her into a brightly-lit linoleum tiled room with an odd, funky odor and a kitchen table with cracked vinyl chairs around it. Another stout, middle-aged woman sat in one of the chairs. This one had short, curly grey hair. She took one look at Simon and frowned.

His new friend, the redhead, whose name tag read "Velda," motioned to one of the chairs. "You can have a seat here, kid. Oh, what was your name? Vasquez will want to know who he's hiring."

"Uh, it's Simon. Simon Palmer."

"Simon. Nice to meet you. Good luck!"

The grey-haired woman glanced around herself nervously, then balled up the bag of chips she was eating and tossed them in the trash. "Wait, Vel! I have something I needed to tell you." She sidled out of the room while not taking her eyes off of Simon. He felt a bit like a zoo animal. She shut the door behind her, but it didn't latch, and stayed open a fraction of an inch. Simon heard his name, so he crept to the door and stood there, listening.

"I knew it was that Palmer kid. I nearly fell off my chair."

"Who is he, Marge? You look like you saw a Valentine's Day card."

"I forget you're from Desert Bluffs, Vel. He's bad news, that's who he is."

"Really? Poor kid said he needed to get money for his family."

"Marge" snickered, a low, nasty sound. "Don't believe that for a minute. The Palmers are filthy stinking rich, that's what they are."

"You don't say..."

"Yeah! They live in that giant house on the west side of town. The one the city started to condemn a couple months ago, until Josie Santiago made a stink over it."

"Oh, that place? I thought it was abandoned."

"No, they live there. They're all a little..." She didn't say anything, but Simon would have bet money that she was circling her ear in the universal gesture for "batshit crazy." "Everyone knows that Cassie Palmer has a fortune stashed somewhere in that house."

"Honestly?"

"Yep. I've heard it's in the walls. She's the one with the bicycle and the crash helmet."

"Oh, her? God, she gives me the creeps. And that kid in there belongs to her?"

"Yep. He's her oldest. There's another one, too. I hear he's already a few curly fries short of a family size order, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the older one, there, he's a real delinquent, and the whole family is nothing but trash. Money doesn't buy class, you know... Poor old Jaques and Myrtle Rigadeau's slutty granddaughter runs around with him, and it's driving them to distraction. I wouldn't hire him, he probably has lice and the crabs and --" She was cut off by the sound of the door swinging open. Simon stood there, red-faced and livid. Velda began to stammer.

"Simon! Don't... don't listen to Marge, here, she has foot-in-mouth disease..."

" **SHUT THE FUCK UP!** " Both women gaped at him. "Keep your fucking goddamn job! I wouldn't work here with you cunts if it would save my fucking life!" He lunged toward them, snarling, and they flinched. He laughed long and low, then grabbed as many packs of cigarettes as he could fit in one hand and charged out the door. 

The walk home was a blur. He remembered growling and making fists at passerby, and he remembered throwing rocks at the Ralphs billboard, but soon he found himself in front of his house. Cursing, he stomped up the stairs and into his room.

Cecil was sitting on his bed, spooning something out of a can and into his mouth, humming cheerfully as he paged through a magazine. Simon threw his backpack down onto the floor in a huff, then turned his attention to his brother.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Reading 'Radio Host Monthly Junior'! Mr. Williams and Teddy came by and fixed the electricity. I guess it was just a fuse, though they did say something about a fire trap." He shrugged and went back to his magazine.

"And what the fuck are you eating?"

"Oh! Old Woman Josie came by and brought a whole bunch of food that she said she didn't want any more. There's plenty in the kitchen for you!"

Simon hissed and slapped the can out of his startled brother's hand. "Don't eat that. Those are charity beans."

Cecil blinked. "No, I think they're black-eyed peas."

"Doesn't it bother you?" He leaned in close to Cecil, who began to squirm. "Doesn't it bother you that the people of this town feel _sorry_ for us?"

"Oh, Simon, it's not like that. People are just really really nice, that's all."

"That's bullshit! They think we're trash! They think we're trash, and they think that you're just like Mother!"

"What a lovely compliment!"

Simon saw red and for a moment sincerely desired nothing more than to slap his brother until his head flew off. He sputtered, but nothing came out. He grabbed his backpack and for the second time in two days raged out of his house. 

He tromped out onto the porch, forgetting to watch where his heavy steps fell, and his left foot went right through a rotten board. A flash of pain went through him, and he cursed creatively as he pried his twisted ankle free.

As he limped down the sidewalk, drowning in a sea of ire, a familiar voice appeared in his head. The Strex box was in his backpack, still, but he could see it in his mind's eye.

 _This is not what you deserve,_ it echoed sonorously.

"It sure as shit isn't," he muttered, and set off for Simone's house.


End file.
